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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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TO MY MOTHER 



COMPILED BY 

WALLACE and FRANCES RICE 




NEW YORK 

BARSE AND HOPKINS 

PUBLISHERS 



life 




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Copyright, 1912 
By BARSE and HOPKINS 




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nrrioTHm 





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INTRODUCTION 

T ET this be said of Mothers. From 
•■^ their flesh and blood the race of man 
is fashioned, from their hopes and prayers 
the faith of man is molded, from their love 
and tenderness the heart of man is pulsing 
warm and red and deep — ^to-day, as through 
all earthly ages past. Not only at our birth, 
but to the end, they hold their lives ready 
to give for ours. In every little soul they 
nurse to strength the plant of their high 
hopes and gentle fears ; no noble thought or 
high ambition gained through human his- 
tory had not its seed long years before 
within some mother's prayer; no forward 
step to aid the sons of men was ever taken 
save by those who learned to walk within 
a mother's sheltering care, nor ever left a 
babe his mother's knee she shed not tears to 
see him go away. Friends come to men, 
and loves; but never such sweet friendship, 
such true love, as mothers know. 

— Wallace Bice. 




TO MY MOTHER 

A MOTHER heard our infant cries, 
"^^ And folded us with fond embrace, 
And when we woke, our infant eyes 
Were opened on a mother's face. 




rKJOTER 




Our wishes she did make her own. 
Her bosom fed and pillowed too. 

Answering each start or fitful moan 
With trembling pulses fond and true. 

Then knowledge was a thing untaught: 
Heaven's charity, a daily dole. 

Stole in inaudibly, and wrought 
Its gentle bonds about the soul. 

— Charles Tennyson Turner, 



/^OD could not be everywhere; therefore ^.. 

^^ He made mothers. % I 

— Hebrew Proverb, 

TXJ OMEN know 
^^ The way to rear up children (to be 

just) ; 
They know a simple, merry, tender knack 
Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, 
And stringing pretty words that make no 

sense, 
And kissing full sense into empty words; 
J Which things are corals to cut life upon. 
Although such trifles. 

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 




rmi^fcra 



I 





S not a young mother one of the sweetest 
sights which life shows us? 

— William Makepeace Thackeray, 



TAEAR Lord, dear Lord .... 
^^ Thou, who didst not erst deny 
The mother- joy to Mary mild 
Blessed in the blessed Child^ — 
Hearkening in meek babyhood 
Her cradle hymn, albeit used 
To all that music interfused 
In breasts of angels high and good. 
Oh, take not, Lord, my babe away — 
Oh, take not to thy songful heaven. 
The pretty babe thou hast given; 
Or ere that I have seen him play 
Around his father's knees, and known 
That he knew how my love hath gone 
From all the world to him. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 

The Mother's Prayer. 




A MOTHER only knows a mother's 
-^^ fondness. 

— Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 




A WOMAN'S love 
'^^ Is mighty, but a 



mother's heart is 



[ghty, 
weak 
And by its weakness overcomes. 

— James Russell Lowell, 






1 1 



mrtoTHER 



rilHROUGH many a year a picture dear 
''■ Hung just above my bed; 
It plainly showed a shady road 

That, curving gently, led 
Past shrub and tree, till I could see. 

Beside a blossoming vine, 
My mother stand, as once she stood 
When she was young, and I was good. 

In days all sun and shine. 



I saw her there, so sweet and fair. 

When I drove off to school; 
I knew the bliss of her fond kiss 

On that deep porch and cool; 
And every night the blessed sight 

Of her above my bed 
Consoled me for the boyish woes 
Of absence — comforted I rose 

When my brief prayer was said. 




T 
f 




The change and strife of later life. 

The years that leave me gray, 
Have taken, too, that pictured view; 

But cannoti take away 
The memory so dear to me. 

That fond and wistful joy: 
There stands my home, and mother's there. 
So young, so good, so sweet and fair. 

And I'm her little boy. 

—Oliver Marble. 1^' 





rUf nOTHER 






T^HE voices of the Loved and Lost are 

stirring at my heart, 
And memory's misered treasures leap to 

life, with sudden start — 

Thou art looking, smiling on me, as thou 
hast looked and smiled. Mother, 

And I am sitting at thy side, at heart a very 
child. Mother! 

I'm with thee now in soul, sweet Mother, 

much as in those hours, 
When all my wealth was in thy love, and in 

the birds and flowers. 

And by these holy yearnings, by these eyes 

sweet tears wet, 
I know there wells a spring of love through 

all my being yet. 

— Gerald Massey. 




P^^ 



NATURE'S loving proxy, the watchful 
TVk r-k-l-Vi cm* 

— Bulwer-Lytton . 



mother. 



npO rock the cradle of reposing age, 
-■■ With lenient arts extend a mother's 
breath. 
Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of 

death. 
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye. 
And keep awhile one parent from the sky ! 

— Alexander Pope, 




rnrrioTHER 




^^■^^ 



/^NCE on my mother's breast, a child, I 
^^ crept, 

Holding my breath; 
There, safe and sound, lay shuddering, andj 
wept 

At the dark mystery of death. 

Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest, 

Spent with the strife, — 
O Mother, let me weep upon thy breast 

At the sad mystery of life! 

— William Dean Howells, 

T TOAST the mother with the hallowed 

features, 
Most blessed one of* all created creatures ! 
What man achieves he owes to woman's 

care — 
A sweet wife's love or saintly mother's 
prayer. 

— Fred Emerson Brooks. 

O ACK and forth in a rocker, 
'^ Lost in revery deep. 
The mother rocked while trying 
To sing the baby to sleep. 

The baby began a-crowing. 
For silent he couldn't keep — 

And after awhile the baby 

Had crowed his mother to sleep. 

— Richard Kendall Munkittrick. 






Ss 



m^ 





ny MOTHER 



Ti/rOTHER, crooning soft and low, 
-*-■*■ Let not all thy fancies go, 
Like swift birds, to the blue skies 
Of thy darling's happy eyes. 

Count thy baby's curls for beads, 
As a sweet saint intercedes; 
But on some fair ringlet's gold 
Let a tender prayer be told 

For the mother, all alone, 
Who for singing maketh moan, 
Who doth ever vainly seek 
Dimpled arms and velvet cheek. 

— Mary Frances Butts. 




\^ THEN among all life's miracles I try 
^ ^ What highest argument may certify 
That God is good, however things may seem. 
On this I rest, and evil dims like dream, — 
Each little soul that voyages toward birth, 
When it arrives on earth. 
Makes gentlest landfall on a mother's breast. 
— William C. Gannett. 



f 






VriGHT sendeth the hour of all apart: 
'^^ It bringeth the babe to Mother's heart. 
— Wilbur Dick Nesbit. 



f *-^"' '^- 







TOTHEP ^ 



rpHERE was a place in childhood that I 
-*■ remember well. 
And there a voice of sweetest tone bright 

fairy tales did tell; 
And gentle words and fond embrace were 

given with joy to me 
When I was in that happy place, upon my 

mother's knee. 

When fairy tales were ended, "Good night," 

she softly said. 
And kissed, and laid me down to sleep within 

my tiny bed; 
And holy words she taught me there — me- 

thinks I yet can see 
Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my 

mother's knee. 

In the sickness of my childhood, the perils 

of my prime, 
The sorrows of my riper years, the cares of 

every time; 
When doubt and danger weighed me down, 

then pleading all for me. 
It was a fervent prayer to Heaven that bent 

my mother's knee. 

— Samuel Lover, 



T ET France have good mothers and she 
will have good sons. 

— Napoleon, 






i i 



"VrOW I lay me down to sleep: 

^^ I pray the Lord my soul to keep/ 



Was my childhood's early prayer 
Taught by my mother's love and care. 
Many years since then have fled; 
Mother slumbers with the dead; 
Yet methinks I see her now, 
With lovelit eye and holy brow, 
As, kneeling by her side to pray. 
She gently taught me how to say, 
"Now I lay me down to sleep : 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep." 

Oh! could the faith of childhood's days. 
Oh! could its little hymns of praise. 
Oh! could its simple, joyous trust 
Be re-created from the dust 
That lies around a wasted life. 
The fruit of many a, bitter strife ! 
Oh, then at night in prayer I'd bend, 
And call my God, my Father, Friend, 
And pray with childlike faith once more 
The prayer my mother taught of yore, 
"Now I lay me down to sleep: 
I pray the Lord my soul) to keep." 

— Eugene Henry Pullen. 

T THINK it must somewhere be written, 
'■■ that the virtues of mothers shall be 
visited on their children as well as the sins 
of the fathers. 

— Charles Dickens, 




i' \i^ 





" '"10THER 



rpHERE is something in sickness that 
-*" breaks down the pride of manhood; 
that softens the heart, and brings it back 
to the feelings of infancy. Who that has 
lamguished, even in advanced life, in sick- 
ness and despondency; who that has pined 
on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness 
of a foreign land; but has thought on the 
mother "that looked upon his childhood," 
that smoothed his pillow, and administered 
to his helplessness? 

— Washington Irving, 

pOETS sing of Home, mothers sing at 
Home. 

— Alfred R. Jackson, 

TV/TY Mother! With thy calm and holy 
^^^ brow, 

And high devoted hearty which suffered still 
Unmurmuring, through each degree of ill. 
And, because Fate hath willed that mine 

should be 
A poet's soul (at least in my degree), — 
And that my verse would faintly shadow 

forth 
What I have seen of pure unselfish worth. 
Therefore I speak of thee; that those who 

read 
That trust in woman, which is still my creed. 
Thy early-widowed image may recall 
And greet thy nature as the type of all. 

— Sarah Elizabeth Norton. 




vi nu 



li/f OTHERS are just the queerest things! 
iy± 'Member when John went away, 
All but mother cried andi cried, 

When they said good-by that day. 
She just talked and seemed to be 

Not the shghtest bit upset — 
Was the only one who smiled! 

Others' eyes were streaming wet. 

But when John came back again. 

On a furlough safe and sound. 
With a medal for his deeds. 

And without a single woxmd. 
While the rest of us hurrahed, 

Laughed and joked and danced about. 
Mother kissed him, then she cried — 

Cried and cried like all git out! 

— Edwin L. Sdbin. 



TVTY mother was as mild as any saint, 
^ ^ And nearly canonized by all she knew, 
So gracious was her tact and tenderness. 

— Alfred Tennyson, 

T ORD, give the mothers of the world 
^^ More love to do their part; 
That love which reaches not alone 
The children made by birth their own. 

But every childish heart. 
Wake in their souls true motherhood, 
Which aims at universal good. 

— Ella Wheeler Wilcooc, 





riYnOTHER 



^^^1 LOVE," she said, with her faint, 
-'• sweet smile, 

**But I shall not narrow this life of mine ; 
Or hid my spirit its thirst beguile 

With the joys that women still count di- 
vine. 
Why, I am a soul! I am part of God! 
I doubt, and question, — have wings to 
mount; 
Do you think I shall only moil and plod. 
And fill my cup at the common fount?" 

That was only a year and a day — 

Last night her fingers were softly pressed 
On the downy head of a babe, that lay 
With warm, wet mouth at her gracious 
breast. 
"Do you think," she said, "there is rarer 
bliss 
Where the long bright cycles of heaven 
unroll? 
Or any wonder more deep than this. 
To share with God in a human soul?" 

— Emily Huntington Miller. 



Ti/T Y merry little daughter 

^ -*■ Was climbing out of bed — 

"Don't you think I'm a good girl, 

My little daughter said; 
"For all day long this lovely day 

And all day long to-morrow, 
I haven't done a single thing 

To give my mother sorrow!" 



^^ 




m 











mrtoTHER^^ 



npHERE is no Love like a Mother's — 
-*■ 'Tis the Sun that shineth forth; 
There is no Truth like a Mother's — 

'Tis the Star that points the North; 
There is no Hope like a Mother's — 

'Tis the April in the clod; 
There is not Trust like a Mother's — 

'Tis the Charity of God: 
The Love and Truth, the Hope and Trust 
That make the mortal more than dust. 

— John Jarvis Holden. 

OOME of the merriest and most genuine 
^ of women are old maids; and those old 
maids, and wives who are unhappily mar- 
ried, have often most of the true motherly 
touch. 

— Robert Louis Stevenson, 



\ H, then how sweetly closed those ^ 

crowded days! 
The minutes parting one by one like rays. 

That fade upon a summer's eve. 
But oh! what charm, or magic numbers 
Can give me back the gentle slumbers 

Those weary, happy days did leave? 
When by my bed I saw my mother kneel. 
And with her blessing took her nightly 

kiss; 
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this — 
E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. 

— Washington Allston, 




m 




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*Crfi 



rwrioTHHi 



T^EAR beacon of my childhood's day, 
-*^ The lodestar of my youth, 
A mingled glow of tenderest love 

And firm, unswerving truth, 
I've wandered far o'er east and west, 

'Neath many stranger skies. 
But ne'er I've seen a fairer light 

Than that in Mother's eyes. 

— L, M, Montgomery, 



T^OT a great lady, this mother of mine. 

Easy through social graces, 
But her eyes are a-shine with a light divine. 
As they gaze full of tenderness into mine. 
And her spirit is lucid and clear and fine 
As the angels in heavenly places. 

— Titus Lowe. 



/COMPARING one man with another, 
^^ You'U find this maxim true, 
That the man who is good to his mother 
Will always be good to you! 

— Fred Emerson Brooks, 



nPHE ring so worn, as you behold. 

So thin, so pale, was yet of gold: 
The passion such it was to prove ; 
Worn with life's cares, love yet was love. 

— George Crdbhe. 

On his Mother's Wedding Ring. 



^ 





HYIIOTHEF^ 



rpHERE are no colors in God's heaven- 
* bent bow. 
Nor is there music in the choiring spheres, 
iV^^^u) Can paint thy smile from out these youth- N^^ 
ful years, 
Recall the music of thy voice so low 
And sweet, dear mother, in the long ago. 
But gone art thou. Ah! how the bitter 

tears 
Eurned deep into my heart! How mem- 
ory sears, 
But cannot heal those wounds, while tears 
still flow. 
Back from those bright and happy days 
gone by. 
Echoes of childish mirth and cradle song! 
Thy guiding hand and presence then were 
nigh. 
And I am weary, and life's road seems 
wrong. 
I miss thy smiling face, thy watchful eye. 
Life's heaven was short. Eternity's is 
long. 

— John Allister Currie, 




\\ 



^ ^OHALL I take your love to your 

^ mother," said a lady visitor, who was 

going to see the mother of a little child of 

three years. 

"She has my love," was the reply. 






-HER 



'^o^m&A 



■i-TrSV>ii,^ • 




npHE mother sending forth her child 

To meet with cares and strife, 
Breathes through her tears her doubts and 
fears 
For the loved one's future life. 
No cold *'adieu," no "farewell" lives 

Within her choking sighs; 
But the deepest sob of anguish gives, 
"God bless thee, boy! — good-by!" 

— Eliza Cook. 



'W 



rilHE mother's heart is always with her 
^ children. 

\ — Proverb, 



"VTOW, boys, just a moment! you've all 

"^"^ had your say 

While enjoying yourselves in so pleasant a 

way; 
We've toasted our sweethearts, our friends, 

and our wives; 
We've toasted each other, wishing all merry 
•,;^ lives — 

Here's to one in a million, the dearest, the 

best. 
Like the sun in the heavens, she outshines 

the rest! 
Don't frown when I tell you this toast beats 

all others, 
But drink one more toast, boys, a toast to 

"Our Mothers r 




^ 








ITYnOTHER 



"D ACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, 

in your flight. 
Make me a child again, just for to-night! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore. 
Take me again to your heart, as of yore ; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care. 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my 

hair. 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep. 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 




Come, let your brown hair, just Hghted with 

gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again^ as of old ; 
Let it drop over my forehead to-night. 
Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



W^' 



Mother, dear mother, the years have been 

long 
Since I last listened your lullaby song : 
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace. 
With your light lashes just sweeping my 

face. 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 
— Elizabeth Ahers Allen, 







y5^ 



M 



T^ 



riYriOTHER 



/^"^H, there's many a lovely picture 
^^ On memory's silent wall. 
There's many a cherished image 

That I tenderly recall! 
The sweet home of my childhood, 

With its singing brooks and birds. 
The friends who grew around me, 

With their loving looks and words; 
The flowers that decked the wildwood. 

The roses fresh and sweet, 
The blue-bells and the daisies 

That blossomed at my feet — 
All, all are very precious. 

And often come to me. 
Like breezes from that country 

That shines beyond death's sea. 
But the sweetest, dearest image 

That fancy can create 
Is the image of my mother. 

My mother at the gate. 

— Matilda C. Edwards. 




1 




T ET us drink with a will to the Maidens, 

^■^ Who make for us paradise; 

Let us drink to the gold of their tresses. 

To the blue of their wondering eyes. 

And now, when the toasting is ended, 

Let us forthwith the goblet refill. 

And drink to the Mothers! God bless 

them! 
Come: a toast and a drink — ^with a will! 

— Marie Beatrice Gannon, 



^V' 




CO 

nrnoTHEP 



rilHE good man took the Sacred Book, 
'*■ And the trial of Abraham read, 
Until in the solemn shadows. 

The sorrow grew wondrous near; — 
Fathers looked at their own bright sons, 
And the mothers dropped a tear. 



Thoughtful all sat a little space. 

And then the Dominie said: 
"David, couldst thou have done this thing? 

And the old man bowed his head, 
And standing up with lifted face. 

Answered: ''I think I could, 
For I have found through eighty years 

That the Lord our God is good." 



"Janet, you've been a mother oft. 

Could your faith have stood the test?" 
She raised her grandchild in her arms. 

And she held it to her breast — 
"God knows a mother's love," she said. 

While the tears dropped from her eyes; 
"And never from a mother's heart 

Would have asked such sacrifice." 



"O mother, wise," the preacher said, 
"O mother, wise and good, 

A deeper depth than man can reach 
Thy heart hath understood. 





r 



f ^'".V c/iK 





nrrtoTHER 




Take Janet's sermon with you, friends, 

And as your years go by, 
Believe our Father no poor soul 

Beyond its strength will try." 

— Lillie E, Bam 

A Mother's Answer. 




TF I had an eagle's wings, 

How grand to sail the sky 
But I should drop to the earth 

If I heard my baby cry. 
My baby — ^my darling. 

The wings may go, for me. 

If I were a splendid queen, 
With a crown to keep in place, 

Would it do for a little wet mouth 
To rub all over my face? 

My baby — ^my darling. 

The crown may go for me. 

— Eliza Sproat Turner 




/^NCE I asked my mother why she wa'n't 
a boy like me, 
< So she could grow to be a man and sail upon 
the sea. 
And be a famous Commodore and have a 

lot of ships; 
"I would rather be your mother," and her 
love was on her lips. 

— David Stearns. 





nynoTHHR 




(^, 




A WIDOW,— she had only one! 
"^^ A puny and decrepit son; 
:,^\{;^ But, day and night, 

Though fretful oft, and weak and small, 
A loving child, he was her all, — 
The Widow's Mite. 

The Widow's Mite^ — aye, so sustained. 
She battled onward, nor complained 

Though friends were fewer: 
And while she toiled for daily fare, 
A httle crutch upon the stair 

Was music to her. 

I saw her then, and now I see 

That, though resigned and cheerful, she 

Has sorrowed much: 
She has — HE gave it tenderly — 
Much faith and, carefully laid by, 

A little crutch. 

^ — Frederick Locker-Lampson, 

"D UT one thing on earth is better than the 
'■^ wife, and that is the mother. 

— L. Schafer. 

rjlHOU, while babes around thee cling, 
•■• Show us how divine a thing 
A woman can be made. 

— Alfred Tennyson. 

TT is a poor mother who cannot make her 
**■ child's hair curl. 




S'-' 




rrirnoTHER 






T AM weeping, mother, in your empty 

'- chamber; 

Beyond the pane, a fair familiar scene ; 

As a far dream only may the man remember 

All the mirth of childhood that hath been — 

Hath been here about thy young joy, O my 

mother, 
All the mirth and laughter of a child. 
Was it I, indeed, and not another. 
Whom you folded in your dear arms unde- 

filed? 
Our nursery with snowy-folded curtain! 
Here you came to bless the dreaming boy, 
All is melted to a memory uncertain, 
Evening prayer, the game, and many a toy. 

— Boden Noel. 



T IKE a sick child that knoweth not 
■■-^ His mother while she blesses. 
And droppeth on his burning brow 

The coolness of her kisses; 
And turns his fevered eyes around — 
"My mother, where's my mother?" 

As if such tender words and looks 
Could come from any other. 

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 



"V/f OTHER is indeed a sweet name, and 
•*' ■* her station is indeed a holy one; for 
in her hands are placed minds, to be molded 
almost at her will. 




^.S 




rTOTm:,R 




f ^/ 




t »T'M wantin' to tell you, Davy," he said 



I 




in a confideotial way, as we trudged 
along, "about the gate o' heaven. . . . An' I 
been wantin' t' tell you," he added, "for a 
long, long time." 

"Is you?" 

"Aye, lad; an' about the women at the 
gate." 

"Women, Skipper Tommy?" said I, puz- 
zled. "An' pray, who is- they?" 

"Mothers," he answered. "Just mothers/' 

"What they doin' at the gate? No, no! 
They're not there. Sure they are playin' 
harps at the foot o' the throne." 

"No," said he positively; "they're at the 
gate." 

"What they doin' there?" 

"Waitin'." . . . 

"What 's they waitin' for?" I asked. 

"Davy, lad," he answered, impressively, 
"they're waitin' for them they bore. That's 
what they're waitin' for." 

"For their sons?" 

"Aye, an' for their daughters, too." . . . 

"Ah, but," I said, . . . "I'm thinkin' 
God would never allow it t' go on. He'd 
gather un there, at the foot o' the throne." 

"Look you, lad," he explained, in a sage 
whisper, "They 're all mothers, an' they'd 
be wantin' t' stay where they was, an' ecod! 
they'd find a way." 

— Norma/n Duncan, 

Doctor Luke of the Labrador. 




I ^ 





m 



mnoTHER 



¥ HAVE been wont to bear my head right 

'*• high, 

My temper too is somewhat stern and rough ; 

Even before a monarch's cold rebuff 

I would not timidly avert mine eye. 

Yet, mother dear, I'll tell it openly: 

Much as my haughty pride may swell and 

puff, 
I feel submissive and subdued enough 
When thy much cherished, darling form is 

nigh. 
Is it thy spirit that subdues me then, 
Thy spirit, grasping all things in thy ken. 
And soaring to the light of heaven again? 
By the sad recollection I'm oppressed 
That I have done so much that grieves thy 

breast, 
iWTiich loved me, more than all things else, 

the best. 

— Edgar Alfred Bowring, 

From the German of Heine. 




TTITOULD you know the baby's skies? 
^ ^ Baby's skies are mother's eyes. 
Mother's eyes and smile together 
Make the baby's pleasant weather. 



.^ .. 



Mother, keep your eyes from tears, 
Keep your heart from foolish fears. 
Keep your lips from dull complaining. 
Lest the baby think 't is raining. 

— Mary C, Bartlett. 



'■"SOKKirseisssti^.. 










IT'S a song of love and triumph, it's a song 

''■ of toil and care, 

It is filled with chords of pathos, and it's 

set in notes of prayer; 
It is bright with dreams and visions of the 

days that are to be, 
And as strong in faith's devotion as the 

heart-beat of the sea; 
It is linked in mystic measure to sweet voices 

from above. 
And is starred with ripest blessing through 

a mother's sacred love. 
O sweet and strong and tender are the 

memories that it brings. 
As I list in joy and rapture to the song my 

mother sings. 

— Thomas O'Hagan. 





T 



HE mother's heart is the child's school- 
room. — Henry Ward Beecher. 




TT never dies, — a mother's love 
'• Strengthens with every ill that may be- 
tide ; 
In every phase of life its waters move 
With current strong, and fathomless, and 
wide. 
From the heart oft other flames may rise, 
And while they seem as warm and grand 
and high. 
The incense o^ one lives to reach the skies, — f 
A mother's tender love can never die. 

—E. O. Jewell. 



^m 




t 



rarioTHER 






IT UNDREDS of stars in the pretty sky, 
''■ ■*• Hundreds of shells on the shore to- 
gether. 
Hundreds of birds that go singing by — 
Hundreds of birds in the sunny weather, 



Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn, 
Hundreds of bees in the purple clover. 

Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn. 

But only one mother the wide world over. 



The Mother smooths her baby's pillow — 
Of lace and lawn and softest down ; 

Oh, so she'd smooth out life's least billow. 
All its mountains, and every frown! 

— Ira M, Webster, 



A LITTLE motherless maid! — what is 
"^^^ more pitiful in the eyes of men and 
angels? 

— M. D. Hillmer. 

IV/f Y dear mother with the truthfulness of 
•^ -"■ a mother's heart, ministered to all my 
woes, outward and inward, and even against 
hope kept prophesying good. 

— Thomas Carlyle. 











-^ 




CO 

nVNOTHER 



Ti/T Y little dear, so fast asleep, 
"*• Whose arms about me cling, 

What kisses shall she have to keep 
While she is slumbering! 

Upon her golden baby-hair 

The golden dreams I'll kiss 
Which Life spread, through my morning 
fair. 

And I have saved, for this. 

Upon her baby eyes I'll press 

The kiss Love gave to me. 
When his great joy and loveliness 

Made all things fair to see. 

And on her lips, with smiles astir. 

Ah me, what prayer of old 
May now be kissed to comfort her. 

Should Love or Life grow cold? 

— Dollie Radford. 

IV/TOTHER'S kiss— sweeter this 
Than any other thing! 

— William Allingham. 






rilHE bride she sorrowed for three short 
-■• weeks. 
Three years the sister wore blanched white 

cheeks ; 
But the mother she nursed unending woe. 
Tin she herself to the grave did go. 





mrrioTHER 

; ^jf\ f?LiiiiirtiifM«v.iB«miiiMimwiii«^ iI m— ■iii w i B ifri^ 1 

OLEEP on, my mother! sweet and inno- 
^ cent dreams 
Attend thee, best and dearest! Dreams 

that gild 

Life's clouds like setting suns, with pleas- 
ures filled. 
And saintly joy, such as thy mind be- 
seems, — 
Thy mind where never stormy passion 
gleams 
Where their soft nest the dovelike virtues 
build ; 
And calmest thoughts, like violets dis- 
tilled. 
Their fragrance mingle with bright wis- 
dom's beams. 

Sleep on, sweet mother! not the lily's bell 
So sweet; not the enamored west wind's 

sighs 
That shake the dewdrop from her snowy 
cell 
So gentle, not that dewdrop ere it flies 
So pure. E'en slumber loves with thee 

to dwell, 
O model most beloved of good and wise. 
— Mary Russell Mitford, 

ly/r OTHER is the name for God in the lips 
^ -*■ and hearts of httle children. 

— William Makepeace Thackeray, 

\ 
nnHE mother makes us most. 

^ — Alfred Tennyson, 





riYrtOTHER 




-^^ « 



QILENT and lone, silent and lone! 

^ Where, tell me where are my little ones 

7 



There are np little faces to wash to-night. 
No little troubles for mother to right, 
No little blue eyes to be sung to sleep, 
No little playthings to be put up to keep. 
No little garments to hang on the rack, 
No little tales to tell, no nuts to crack, 
No little trundle-beds brimful of rollick. 
Calling for mamma to settle the frolic, 
No little soft lips to press me with kisses — 
Oh ! such a sad, lonely evening as this is ; 
No little voices to shout with delight. 
Good night, dear mamma, good night, good 
night." 
Silent the house is, no Httle ones here. 
To startle a smile or chase back a tear. 





Silent and lone, silent and lone ! 

Where, tell me where are my little ones 

gone? 
It seemeth but yesterday since they were 

young; 
Now they are all scattered the world's paths 

among ; 
Out where the great rolling tide-stream is 

flowing, 
Out where new firesides with love-light are 

glowing. 
Out where the graves of their life-hopes are 

sleeping, 




riYriOTHER 





Not to be comforted, — weeping, still weep- 
ing, 
Out where the high hills of science are blend- 
ing, 
Up mid the cloud-rifts — ^up, up, still ascend- 
ing, 
Seeking the sunshine that rests on the moun- 
tain ; 
Drinking and thirsting still, still at the foun- 
tain; 
Out in life's throughfare, all of them moil- 
ing. 
Out in the wide world, striving and toiling. 
Little ones, loving ones, playful ones all. 
That went when I bade and came at my call, 
Have you deserted me? Will you not come 
tBack to your mother's arms, back to the 
home? — Frances D, Gage, 




T OVE! love! — ^there are soft smiles and 
■*^ gentle words, 
\i And there are faces, skillful to put on 
The look we trust in — and 't is mockery all : 
A faithless mist, a desert-vapor, wearing 
The brightness of clear waters, thus to clear 
The thirst that semblance kindled — ^there is 

none. 
In all this cold and hollow world, no font 
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that 

within 
A mother's heart. 

— Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 






rpHERE are soft words murmured by 
-■• dear, dear lips, 

Far richer than any other: 
But the sweetest word that the ear hath heard 

Is the blessed name of "Mother." 

O magical word may it never die 

From the lips that love to speak it, 
Nor melt away from the trusting hearts 

That even would break to keep it. 

Was there ever a name that lived like this ? 

Will there ever be such another? 
The angels have reared in heaven a shrine 

To the holy name of "Mother." 

— A Year of Beautiful Thoughts, 

npHE Mother looketh from her latticed 
-*• pane — 
Her children's voices echoing sweet and 
clear : 
With merry leap and bound her side they 
gain. 
Offering their wild field-flow'rets : all are 

dear. 
Yet still she listens with an absent ear: 
For while the strong and lovely round her 
press, 
A halt imeven step sounds drawing near: 
And all she leaves, that crippled child to 

bless, 
Folding him to her heart with cherishing 

caress. .. u, ^ 

— Sarah Elizabeth Norton, IHlJ 





nyrtoTHEF 



Btt^Ss!9»^ 




TT OME they brought her warrior dead : 

She nor swooned, nor uttered cry: 
All her maidens watching, said, 
"She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him soft and low. 
Called him worthy to be loved. 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she never spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place 

Lightly to the warrior stept, 
Took the face cloth from his face; 

Yet she never moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears — 
"Sweet my child, I live for thee." 

— Alfred Tennyson, 

l^THERE crystal streams through end- 
^ ^ less years 

Flow over golden sands. 
And where the old grow young again, 
I'll clasp my mother's hands. 

—Ellen M. H. Gates. 



K 



A LL women become like their mothers. 
"^^ That is their tragedy. No man does. 
That is his. 

— Oscar Wilde. 





rrrrioTHER 







/^NLY a factory girl, 

^^ And she works in the noisy mill, 

But her hands are deft, and her arms are 

strong, 
And she sings at her work the whole day 
long. 

And she works with a right good will; 
For mother at home is growing old, 
And mother's house is poor and cold. 

And the wintry winds are chill; 
And she longs for the day to quickly come 
When mother may have a better home. 

And so she toils in the mill. 

Only a factory girl. 

Her mother's hope and stay. 
But her love is strong for every one. 
Like the glowing beams of the morning sun 

As he ushers in the day. 
Her flowers she gives to the sick and poor. 
And she always keeps an open door 

For all who come that way. 
And for all who live by constant toil. 
In mill or mine or on the soil. 

She hopes for a better day. 

—C, J. Buell 

TVyT Y world may be small, but 'tis happy 
^ ^ And peaceful, far from the mad 

whirl. 
And the day's toil is lost and forgotten 
In the kiss of my wee baby girl. 

— Louise Malloy. 




V "W 



mrto' 



¥>ECAUSE of one dear infant Head 
"■^ With golden hair, 



mi 






■-^ 



To me all little heads 

A halo wear; 
And for one saintly face I kno^f: 

All babes are fair. 

Because of two wide earnest Eyes 

Of heavenly blue, 
Which looked with yearning gaze 

My sad soul through, 
All eyes now fill my own with tears 

Whate'er their hue. 



Because of little death-marked Lips, 

Which once did call 
My name in childish tones. 

No voices fall 
Upon my ear in vain appeal 

From children small. 



Two little Hands held in my own 

Long, long ago. 
Now cause me as I wander through 

This world of woe, 
To clasp each baby hand stretched out 

In fear of foe: 
The lowest cannot plead in vain — 

I loved Him so! 







J>a3Ca3'''-W' IZ .-'««lK.*rt!-crmi" 



m 




i 



) CO (^ 



npHERE are whips and toys and pieces of 
'■■ strings, 

There are shoes which no little feet wear, 
There are bits of ribbon and broken things, 

And tresses of golden hair ; 
There are little dresses folded away 
Out of the light of the sunny day. 

There are dainty jackets that never are 
worn, 
There are toys and models of ships. 
There are books and pictures all faded and 
torn. 
And marked by the finger-tips 
Of dimpled hands that have fallen to dust; 
Yet I strive to think that the Lord is just. 

But a feeling of bitterness fills my soul 
Sometimes, when I try to pray. 

That a Reaper has spared so many flowers 
And taken mine away; 

And I almost doubt if the Lord can know 

That a mother's heart can love them so. 

And then I think of my children two — 

My babes that never grew old ; 
To know they are waiting and watching for 
you. 

In the city with streets of gold ! 
Safe, safe from the cares of the weary years, 

From sorrow and sin and war; 
And I thank my God with falling tears 

For the things in the bottom drawer. 



\> 



\> 




v.i«,«l»US*,IS«fi-7>i'v^-V 




rtrnoTHER 




'I^T'HEN Mother was a little girl, 
^ ^ Now many years ago. 
She had to mind her P's and Q's, 

She had to walk just so; 
And if her mother said, "Be quiet!" 

She didn't dare say "Booh!" 
For fear they'd send her off to bed. 

Without her supper, too. 



When Mother grew to womanhood, 

And got her children, then 
She found the fashion turned around, — 

She had to mind again: 
To-day it's Margaret, Jean, and Jane 
, , Who do the talking, and 

^I'^H^^^^ Mother doesn't dare say "Booh!" 
Except upon command. 

— William Wallace Whitelock. 




li 



*f 



T ET every honest man praise God that 
'^ all his life through he has the privilege, 
the royal honor, of daily association with 
Mothers: In youth with the fountain at 
once of his life and of his dearest memories ; 
in manhood with the sweeter mother of his 
own sweet babes! 

— Eben Willis Smith. 



npHE good mother saith not, "Will you?" 
but gives. 

— Proverb. 






CO 

nrrtoTHER 



r^^iitTMSt 56-i ' "■ -- .Vi:\ejt^f 



"D EFORE me toiled in the whirling wind 
*^ A woman with bundles great and small, 
And after her tugged, a step behind, 
The Bundle she loved the best of all. 



A dear little roly-poly boy 

With rosy cheeks, and a jacket blue, 
Laughing and chattering full of joy. 

And here's what he said — I tell you true; 




"i • 




**You're the goodest mother that ever was." 
A voice as clear as a forest bird's; 

And I'm sure the glad young heart had cause 
To utter the sweet of the lovely words. 

Perhaps the woman had worked all day 
Washing or scrubbing; perhaps she sewed; 

I knew, by her weary footfall's way. 
That life for her was an uphill road. 

But here was a comfort. Children dear. 
Think what a comfort you might give 

To the very best friend you can have here, 
The lady fair in whose house you live, 

If once in a while you'd stop and say, — 
In task or play for a moment pause. 

And tell her in sweet and winning way, 
"You're the goodest mother that ever 







I 




CO 

mnoTHER 



r\ RATAPLAN ! It is a merry note, 
^^ And, mother, I'm for listing in 







the morn"; 
'And would ye, son, to wear a scarlet coat, 
Go leave your mother's latter age for- 
lorn?" 
'O mother, I am sick of sheep and goat, 
Fat cattle, and the reaping of the corn ; 
I long to see the British colors float ; 
For glory, glory, glory, was I born!" 

She saw him march. It was a gallant sight. 
She blest herself, and praised him for a 
man. ' 

And straight he hurried to the bitter fight. 

And found a bullet in the drear Soudan. 

They dug a shallow grave — 't was all they 

might ; 

And that's the end of glory. Rataplan! 

— Edward Cracroft Lefroy. 



p>LESSED is the memory of an old- 
^^ fashioned mother. It floats to us now, 
like the beautiful perfume of some wood- 
land blossoms. The music of other voices 
may be lost, but the entrancing melody 
of hers will echo in our souls forever. 
Other faces will fade away and be for- 
gotten, but hers will shine on until the 
light from Heaven's portals will glorify 
our own. 





^^ 



m 



J\ 



WNOTHER 



T LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare 
^ To chide me for loving that old arm- 
chair? 
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart, 
Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
^ Would you learn the spell?— a mother sat 
there, , 
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 
The hallowed seat with listening ear; 
And gentle words that mother would give, 
To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 
She told me shame would never betide. 
With truth for my creed and God for my 

guide ; 
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer. 
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now 
With quivering breath and throbbing brow; 
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she 

died ; 
And memory flows with a lava tide. 
Say it is folly, and deem me weak. 
While the scalding tears run down my cheek; 
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 

— Wiza Cook, 

1VT ONEY builds the house, mothers make 




I- 



the home. 



■George Zell. 





rariioTHm 



r 




'F you have a gray-haired mother in the 

old home far away, 

,^ .^ Sit you down and write the letter you've put 

I^Y) off from day to day. | 

Don't wait until her weary steps reach 

Heaven's pearly gate, 
But show her that you think of her, before it 
is too late. 

— George Bancroft Griffith. 



TV/TOTHER'S smile— that smile 

"^^ "■■ Of all, best fitted sorrow to beguile. 

And strengthen hope, and, by unmarked 

degrees, \^ 

Encourage to their birth high purposes. 

— William Gilmore Simms, 



T ONG, long before the Babe could speak, 
•*^ And to her bosom press. 
The brightest angels standing near 
Would turn away to hide a tear — 
For they were motherless. 

— John Banister Tabb. 



TN the heavens above 

The angels whispering to one another, 
Can find, amid their burning terms of love, 
None so devotional as that of "mother" 

— Edgar Allan Poe. 





CO 

mr MOTHER 



ly/TY Mother! When I learned that thou 

^ ■*- wast dead, 

Say, Wast thou conscious of the tears I 
shed? 

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son? 

Wretch even then, Life's journey just be- 
gun! 

Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a 
kiss? 

Perhaps, a tear? if souls can weep in bliss. 

Ah, that maternal smile! It answers "Yes!" 

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; 

And, turning from my nursery window, 
drew 

A long, long sigh; and wept a last Adieu! 

But was it such? It was. Where thou art 
gone, 

Adieus! and Farewells! are a sound un- 
known! 

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 

The parting sound shall pass my lips no 
more ! 

The maidens grieved themselves at my con- 
cern. 
Oft gave me promise of a quick return. 
What ardently I wished, I long believed; 
And disappointed still, was still deceived! 
Dupe of To-Morrow, even from a child. 
By expectation every day beguiled! 
Thus manv a sad to-morrow came and went. 






rarrioTHER 





Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
I learned, at last, submission to my lot: 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er for- 
got! 

— William Cowper, 



/^N Euripides' plays we debated, 
^-^ In College, one chill winter night; 
A student rose up, while we waited 

For more intellectual light. 
As he stood, pale and anxious, before us, 

Three words, like a soft summer wind, 
Went past us and through us and o'er us — 

A whisper low-breathed: ''He is blind!" 

And in many a face there was pity, 

And in many an eye there were tears ; 
For his words were not buoyant and witty. 

As fitted his fresh summer years. 
And he spoke once or twice, as none other 

Could speak, of a woman's pure ways — ^ 
He remembered the face of his mother 

Ere darkness had blighted his days. 

— Edmund John Armstrong, 



W 



\\TJ1AT mother is so blest as she who 
^ ^ finds in her little one's face not only 
something of her own look, but also the look 
of her mother? 





riYilOTHER 



rpHE mother yields her little babe to sleep 
'■• Upori her tender breast, 
And singing still a lullaby, 

Hushes its heart to rest: 
"O sleep in peace upon my bosom. 
And sweetly may your small dreams 

blossom ; 
And from the fears that made me weep you, 
And from all pains, as soft you sleep you, 
The angels lightly guard and keep you. 

And hold you blest! 




l^r'iy 



f>.^ 



d 



'Your mother, dear, is often full of fear. 

As the moments run; 
Her love entwines so close, ah dear, — 

Dearest little one. 
Her song is in its music weeping. 
To think of death and its dark keeping, 
That yet might turn those red cheeks 

white, — 
Life's rose, that grows so in her sight, — 
And your bright eyes, like morning light. 

Dearest little one!" 

— Ernest Rhys, 



1 SEE the sleeping babe, nestling the 
-■■ breast of its mother; 
The sleeping mother and babe — shushed, I 
study them long and long. 

— Walt Whitman, 




HYNOTHER 






T TALF the long night, my children, I lie 
'*■ '*' waking 

Till the dawn rustles in the old thorn tree, 
Then dream of you, while the red morn is 
breaking 

Beyond that broad salt sea ; 



In this poor room, where many a time the 
measure 
Of your low, regular breathing in mine 
ear. 
Brought to my listening heart a keener 

pleasure - s 

Than any music clear ; 



Here, where your soft heads in my bosom 



laying. 
Ye nestled, with your hearts to my heart 

pressed ; 
And I have f eit your little fingers playing, 
All night, around my breast. 





How could ye leave me? Did ye think a 
mother 
Was natured like a bird in summer's 
prime, 
Who leaves her young brood, hopeful of 
another 
In the next glad spring time? 

— Cecil Frances Alexander, 





1 1 



■A 



^O 






■f- iv/:- 



Co 

TtOTHH 



TTOW steadfastly she worked at it! 

How lovingly had dressed 
With all her would-be mother's wit, 
That little rosy, nest! 

How lovingly she'd hang on it! — 
It sometimes seemed, she said, 

There lay beneath its coverlet 
A little sleeping head. 

He came at last, the tiny guest. 

Ere bleak December fled; 
That rosy nest he never pressed — 

Her coffin was his bed. 

— Austin Dohson, 



^yjiTHAT is home without a mother? 
^ ^ What are all the joys we meet? 
When her loving smile no longer 
Greets the coming of our feet? 
The days are long, the nights are drear, 

And time rolls slowly on; 
And oh, how few are childhood's pleasures. 
When her loving care is gone. 

— Alice Hawthorne, 



THE world has no such flower in any 
land, 
And no such pearl in any gulf the sea. 
As any babe on any mother's knee. 

— Algernon Charles Swinburne, 




1 





mrrioTHEF 



^r^C.- 







TylTHEN barren doubt, like a late coming 
^ ^ snow, 

Made an unkind December of my spring, 
That all the pretty flowers did droop for 

woe, 
And the sweet birds their love no more 

would sing; 
Then the remembrance of thy gentle faith. 
Mother beloved, would steal upon my heart ; 
Fond feeling saved me from the utter scathe. 
And from the hope I could not live apart. 
— Arthur Henry Hallam, 

'VrOW in memory comes my mother, 
y ^ ^ As she used long years agone. 
To regard the darling dreamers 

Ere she left them till the dawn; 
Oh, I see her leaning o'er me, 

As I list to this refrain 
Which is played upon the shingles 
By the patter of, the rain. 

— Coates Kinney. 

AH! blessed are they for whom 'mid all 
'^^' their pains 

Thatj faithful and unaltered love remains ; 
Who, life wrecked round them, hunted from 

their rest. 
And by all else forsaken or distressed. 
Claim in one heart their sanctuary and 

shrine 
As I, my Mother, claimed my place in thine. 
— Sarah Elizabeth Norton. 




iU-fy 



^(' 



O&i 




f^/^i^K 




CO 

riYrtoTHHi 





/^H, if I could only make you see 
^^ The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, 
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace. 
The woman's soul, and the angel's face 

That are beaming on me all the while, 
I need not speak these foolish words: 
Yet one word tells you all I would say, — 
She is my mother : you will agree 
That all the rest may be thrown away. 

— Alice Cary. 








'IT^HEN she, a maiden slim, 
^ ^ Suffered his yoke and bondage, on 

she took 
Smooth matron's ways and dalliance for- 
sook 
With gossip-girls in girls' shy eagerness 
To wonder at men's deeds; and with the 

dress 
Of wife attuned her heart in graver mood 
To bear the sober fruits of Motherhood. 
A many children him in time she bore. 
So many treasure-houses for her store 
Of love, which ever waxed as each new voice 
Wailing for succor made her heart rejoice 
That she was almoner. 

— Maurice Hewlett. 



npHE woman was weak, but the mother 
-*• found strength. 




Victor Hugo. 




I 




mrioTHm 



T ORD, Who ordainest for mankind 
■^ Benignant toils and tender cares! 
We thank Thee for the ties that bind 
The mother to the child she bears. 




We thank Thee for the hopes that rise 
Within her heart, as, day by day, 

The dawning soul, from those young eyes. 
Looks, with a clearer, steadier ray. 

And grateful for the blessing given 
With that dear infant on her knee. 

She trains the eye to look to Heaven, 
The voice to lisp a prayer to Thee. 

Such thanks the blessed Mary gave. 
When from her lap the Holy Child, 

Sent from on high to seek and save 
The lost of earth, looked up and smiled. 

All-Gracious! grant to those who bear 
A mother's charge the strength and light 

To lead the steps that own their care 
In ways of Love, and Truth, and Right. 
— William Cullen Bryant, 




"C^VERY man, for the sake of the great 
-■— * blessed Mother in Heaven, and for the 
love of his own little mother on earth, should 
handle all womankind gently, and hold them 
in all honor. 

— Alfred Tennyson, 




WriOTHER 



/T' 



^S^ 



npHE light upon his eyelids pricked them 
•*" wide 

And staring out at us with all their blue, 
As half perplexed between the angelhood 
He had been away to visit in his sleep. 
And our most mortal presence, gradually 
He saw his mother's face, accepting it 
In change for heaven itself with such a smile 
As might have well been learnt there. 

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 

/CHILDREN are what the mothers are. 
^^ No fondest father's fondest care 
Can fashion so the infant heart 
As those creative beams that dart, 
With all their hope and fear, upon 
The cradle of a sleeping son. 

His startled eyes with wonder see 
A father near him on his knee, 
Who wishes all the while to trace 
The mother in his future face ; 
But 't is to her alone uprise 
His waking arms; to her those eyes 
Open with joy and not surprise. 

— Walter Savage Landor. 



Tj^OR unwearying patience and unchan- 
•*■ ging tenderness, the love of a true 
mother stands next to the love of our Father 
in Heaven. 

— A Year of Beautiful Thoughts. 







<x^:\i 



m- 



nrrioTHER 



JUST when each bud was big with bloom, 
^ And as prophetic of perfume, 
When spring, with her bright horoscope. 
Was sweet as an unuttered hope; 

Just when the last star flickered out. 
And twilight, like a soul in doubt, 

Hovered between the dark and dawn. 
And day lay waiting to be born; 

Just when the gray and dewy air 
Grew sacred as an unvoiced prayer. 

And somewhere through the dusk she heard 
The stirring of a nested bird, — 

Four angels glorified the place: 

Wan Pain unveiled her awful face ; 

Joy, soaring, sang; Love, brooding, smiled; 
Peace laid upon her breast a child. 

— Aimie B. Stillman 




MAIDS must be wives and mothers, to 
fulfill 
The entire and holiest end of; women's being. 
— Frances Anne Kemhle, 




at, 



iy/f OTHER'S love grows by giving. 

— Charles Lamb. 

P>UT strive still to be man before your 
^^ mother. 

— William Cowper. 






riY MOTHER 



rpHERE was a gathered stillness in the 
-*• room : 
Only the breathing of the great sea rose 
From far off, aiding that profound repose, 
With regular pulse and pause within the 
gloom 
Of twihght, as if some impending doom 
Was now approaching; — I sat moveless 

there, 
Watching with tears and thoughts that 

were like prayer, 
Till the hour struck, — the thread dropped 
from the loom; 
And the Bark passed in which freed souls 
are borne. 
The dear stilled face lay there ; that sound 

forlorn 
Continued; it rose not, but long sat by; 
And now my heart oft hears that sad sea- 
shore, 
When she is in the f ar-oif land, and I 
Wait the dark sail returning yet once 
more. 

— William Bell Scott. 

My Mother. 

A MOTHER'S arms are made of ten- 
•^^^ derness and children sleep soundly in 
them. 

— Victor Hugo, 

TTEAVEN is kind, as a noble mother. 
^ -■■ . Thomas Carlyle, 




!T^««*?^ 






rtifrioTHER 




npHREE things there be that nearly 
^ break my heart: 
The thought of Christmas and my mother's 

part 
In all its sweetness; the soft prayer she said 
And I beside her ready for my bed; 
And her last kiss at night. Woe's me, 

alone 
Here waiting, waiting — and my mother 



gone 



— Christopher Bannister, 




HERE yet was ever found a mother 
Who'd give her boobv for another. 

— John Gay, 



npHEY say that man is mighty, 
•■" He governs land and sea, 
He wields a mighty scepter 

O'er lesser powers that be ; 
But a mightier power and stronger 
Man from his throne has hurled. 
For the hand that rocks the cradle 
Is the hand that rules the world. 

— William Ross Wallace, 




V /J.. 






A MOTHER who boasts two boys was j ,,; 
, ^^^ ever accounted rich. ^ '" 

I — Robert Browning, 





HYnOTHER 



HAT is there down so deep 
But mother's love will find it? 
Cover it over and hide it well, 
lfr)i) Neither with lips, nor by glances tell; 

Have you a trouble? Wherever it dwell, 
Mother's love finds it out. 



w 



#. 



n 



A' 



What is there up so high, \ 

But mother's love can share it? 
All that is noble, and good and true, — 
That which enriches and blesses you, — 
What you accomplish, and purpose to do ; 

Mother's love shares it all. 

Is anything too hard 
For mother to do for you? 
No, obstacles vanish, and cares grow light. 
Dangers diminish, and clouds become 

bright. 
Burdens grow small, and roll out of sight 
For mother when doing for you. 

— A Year of Beautiful Thoughts. 



rpHE very first 
^ Of human life must spring from 

woman's breast. 
Your first small words are taught you from 

her lips, i 

Your first tears quenched by her. 

— Lord Byron. 






I 



nynoTHER 



LOVED the woman; he that doth not, 

lives 
A! drowning life, besotted in sweet self, 
Or pines in sad experience worse than death, 
Or keeps his winged affections clipped with 

crime : 
Yet was there one through whom I loved 

her, one 
Not learned, save in gracious household 

ways. 
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants. 
No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipped 
In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
Interpreter between the Gods and men, 
j^\ Who looked all native to her place, and yet 
On tiptoe seemed to touch upon a sphere 
Too gross to tread, and all male minds per- 
force 
Swayed to her from their orbits as they 

moved. 
And girdled her with music. Happy he 
With such a mother! faith in womankind 
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things 

high 
Comes easy to him, and though he trip and 

faU 
He shall not blind his soul with clay. 

— Alfred Tennyson, 

f M T I^EMEMBER my mother's prayers 
and they have always followed me. 
They have clung to me all my life. 

— Abraham Lincoln, 



^ 




nyrioTHER 





OHE seemed an angel to our infant eyes 
^^ Once when the glorifying moon re- 
vealed 
Her who at evening by our pillow 
kneeled, — 
Soft-voiced and golden haired, from holy 

skies 
Flown to her love on wings of Paradise, — 
We looked to see the pinions half-con- 
cealed. 
The Tuscan vines and olives will not 
yield 
Her back to me who loved her in this wise. 

And since have little known her, but have 
grown 
To see another mother tenderly 
Watch over sleeping children of my own. 
Perhaps the years have changed her, yet 
alone 
This picture lingers ; still she seems to me 
The fair young angel of my infancy. 

— Edmund Clarence Stedman. 

A Mother's Picture. 



l{ « 







rpHERE is a sight all hearts beguiling — 
-*• A youthful mother to her infant 
smiling, 
Who, with spread arms and dancing feet. 
And cooing voice, returns its answer sweet. 

— Joanna Baillie. 






^ ft(i 




CO 

mnoTHER 









TV4rY little one begins his feet to try, 
"*^ ■*■ A tottering, feeble, inconsistent way; 
Pleased with the effort, he forgets his play. 
And leaves his infant baubles where thev 

lie. 
Laughing and proud his mother flutters 

nigh 
Turning to go, yet joy-compelled to stay, 
And, bird-like, singing what her heart 

would say; 
But not so certain of my bliss am I. 
For I bethink me of the days in store 
Wherein those feet must traverse realms 

unknown. 
And half forget the pathway to our door. 
And I recall that in the seasons flown 
We were his all — as he was all our own — 
But never can be quite so any more. 

— Andrew Brice Saxton, 



,JA 




OHE broke the bread into two frag- 
^^ ments, and gave them to the children, 
who ate with avidity. "She has kept none 
for herself," grumbled the sergeant. "Be- 
cause she is not hungry," said a soldier. 
"Because she is a mother," said the sergeant. 

— Victor Hugo. 



/^OD and thy mother watch o'er thee 
^^ keep. 



'.'♦■.<Vi^?! 




r\ WHEN the half-light weaves 
^-^ Wild shadows on the floor, 
How ghostly come the withered leaves 
Stealing about my door! 

I sit and hold my breath, 

Lone in the lonely house; 
Naught breaks the silence still as death, 

Only a creeping mouse. 






The patter of leaves it may be, 
But like a patter of feet, 

The small feet of my own baby 
That never felt the heat. 

The small feet of my son, 
Cold as the graveyard sod; 

My little, dumb, unchristened one 
That may not win to God. 

"Come in, dear babe," I cry. 
Opening the door so wide. 

The leaves go stealing softly by; 
How dark it is outside! 




And though I kneel and pray 

Long on the threshold-stone, 
The little feet press on their way. 

And I am ever alone. 

— Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 



U 




I ! 



rnrnoTHER 





npHE fire upon the hearth is low, 
•*■ And there is stillness everywhere; 
Like troubled spirits, here and there 

The firelight shadows fluttering go; 

And as the shadows round me creep, 
A childish treble breaks the gloom 
And softly from a further room 

Comes, "Now I lay me down to sleep." 

And, somehow, with that little prayer 
And that sweet treble in my ears, 
My thought goes back to distant years, 

And lingers with a dear one there; 

And as I hear the child's amen. 

My mother's faith comes back to me, — 
Crouched at her side I seem to be, 

And mother holds my hands again. 





O for an hour in that dear place! 
O for the peace of that dear time! 

for that childish trust sublime! 
O for a glimpse of mother's face! 
Yet, as the shadows round me creep, 

1 do not seem to be alone, — 
Sweet magic of that treble tone 

And "Now I lay me down to sleep !" 

— Eugene Field, 



/^H, the love of a mother, love which none 
^^^ can forget. 




4 



Victor Hugo, 




?BK2X■i^jJ,_,.^.,,;;^, 




CO 

ny MOTHER 



T'D a dream to-night 
'■' As I fell asleep. 
Oh, the touching sight 

Makes me still to weep — 
Of my little lad. 
Soon to leave me sad. 
Aye, the child I had. 

But was not to keep. 

As in Heaven high, 
I my child did seek, 

There, in train, came by 
Children fair and meek. 

Each in lily white. 

With a lamp alight; 

Each was clear to sight. 
But they did not speak. 



Then, a little sad. 

Came my child in turn. 
But the lamp he had. 

Oh, it did not burn! 
He, to clear my doubt. 
Said, half turned about, 
"Your tears put it out; 

Mother, never mourn." 

— William Barnes, 

The Mother's Dream. 



A LL that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my 
'^^ angel mother. 

— 'Abraham Lincoln, 




Sorter. 




nyrioTHER 




I 





Tjl^ YES of blue and hair of gold 
^-^ Cheeks all brown with summer tan, 
Lips that much of laughter hold. 
That is mother's little Man. 

Shining curls like chestnut brown. 
Long-lashed eyes, demure and staid, 

Sweetest face in all the town. 
That is mother's little Maid. 

Dainty room with snow-white bed, 
Where, two flowers with petals curled, 

Rest in peace two dreaming heads, 
That is mother's little World. 

— Margaret Alden. 



T may be, mother mine, when you 

departed, 

' White and silent, that you did not wholly go, 

Never left your children broken-hearted, 

^ Help them more, are nearer than they know. 

And your remembered tones are more than 

music. 
More than day the memory of your smile; 
Clear from all the cadences of sorrow. 
May I hear them, and behold them in a 
little while! — Boden Noel, 

'T^HE real religion of the world comes 
■*■ from women much more than from men 
— from mothers most of all, who carry the 
key of our souls in their bosoms. 

— Oliver Wendell Holmes, 





/<? /I c <r . 




HY MOTHER 





A MOTHER'S Love— how sweet 
•^*' name ! 

What is a Mother's Love? — 
A noble, pure, and tender flame 

Enkindled from above, 
To bless a heart of earthly mold; 
The warmest love that can grow cold: 

This is a Mother's Love. 

To bring a helpless babe to light, 
Then, while it lies forlorn. 

To gaze upon that dearest sight 
And feel herself new-born. 

In its existence lose her own. 

And live and breathe in it alone: 
This is a Mother's Love. 



To mark its growth from day to day, 

Its opening charms admire. 
Catch from its eye the earliest ray 

Of intellectual fire; 
To smile and listen while it talks 
And lend a finger when it walks: 

This is a Mother's Love. 

— James Montgomery, 






/^H, children, more than angels ye; 
^^ Of blossoms more than bud; 
And, perfecting perfection, see! 
With you goes Motherhood. 

— Wallace Eke, 




nrrioTHER 






I 



fTlO hear, to heed, to wed, 
-■" Fair lot that maidens choose. 
Thy mother's tenderest words are said. 

Thy face no more she views: 
Thy mother's lot, my dear, 

She doth in naught accuse; 
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear. 
To love — and then to lose. 

— Jean Ingelow. 

rpHIS book is all that's left me now! 
-*■ Tears will unbidden start; 
With faltering lip and throbbing brow, 

I press it to my heart. 
For manj generations past. 
Here is our family tree; 
'My Mother's hands this Bible clasped; 
She, dying, gave it me. 

— George Pope Morris. 

'VTEVER was prideful wealth, power, or 

'*'^ fame 

That glanced not back beyond its haughti- 
ness 

With tenderest longing and a welling eye 

Unto those earlier days, when a clear flame -'pd^^ 

Burned steadfast on the hearth of home, to '^'^ J^ 
bless 

A past that knew no pomp, to smile and 

sigh jf yi 

Wistfully for that better, finer part : 
The unselfishness that is a mother's heart. 

— Christopher Bannister. 









mrrioTHEP 



TTERE, in her old work-basket — 
•■• '■• Now that my mother's gone — - 
I find a thread of silver — 
A single hair alone, 

Than filigree more slender; 

And yet that thread is strong 
To draw my heart and crush it, 

Till tears are all its song. 

I knew when her locks were golden, 

And here, night after night. 
Over this old work-basket, 

I saw them change to white. 

This little thread surviving. 

That tender mother gone! — 
What wonder I am weeping 

As I sit here alone! 

— Christopher Bannister, 






Tj^VEN He that died for us upon the 
^^ cross, in the last hour, in the unutter- 
able agony of death, was mindful of His 
mother, as if to teach us that this holy love 
should be our last worldly thought — the 
last point of earth from which the soul 
should take its flight for Heaven. 

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 



A LL that I am my mother made me. 
-^^ — John Quincy Adams. 





rrf rioTHER 



M.:^ 



,^^j^ 



Tj^AITHFUL remembrancer of one so 

''■ dear. 

Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here ! 

Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, 

AiFectionate, a mother lost so long, 

I will obey, not willingly alone. 

But gladly, as the precept were her own; 

And while that face renews my filial grief. 

Fancy shall weave a charm in my relief — 

Shall steep me in Elysian revery, 

A momentary dream, that thou art she. 

— William Cowper, 

On His Mother's Portrait. 



i I 



rilO bear, to nurse, to rear, 
^^i -■" To watch, and then to lose: 

To see my bright ones disappear. 
Drawn up like morning dews — 
To bear, to nurse, to rear. 

To watch, and then to lose: 
This have I done when God drew near 
Among His own to choose. 

— Jean Ingelow, 

On Maternity. 



::a 



'VTEVER comfes mortal utterance so near 
^ to eternity as when a child utters words 
of loving praise to a mother! Every sylla- 
ble drops into the jewel box of her memory, 
to be treasured for ever and ever. 

— George B, Lyon, 




:r4|sU^ 






mr MOTHER 



T AM a Mother! — that, and no other, 
•■■ Lying in peace with my babe at my 

breast ; 
All my fears banished, all my pain vanished ; 
Happy — and numbered at last with the 

blest! 



. f Here, at my bosom, I nourish a blossom. 

Fairest of flowers — and mine, mine alone ! 
How I yearned for thee long ere I bore 
thee — 
Thee, little baby, now come to thine own I 

Ah, my sweet dearest, thou 'st brought me 
>\'\ nearest 

To Heaven a mortal may be 'neath the 
sun: 
I am a Mother — that, and no other! 

Here is the crown of my womanhood 
won! 

— Frances Viola Holden, 




'-sj.;>-. 



TV/f Y Mother, with thy calm and| holy brow 
^ -■• And high devoted heart, which suf- 
fered still 
Unmurmuring, through each degree of ill, 
Therefore I speak of thee; that those who 

read 
That trust in woman, which is still my creed. 
Thy early-widowed image may recall 
And greet thy nature as the type of all! 
— Sarah Elizabeth Norton. 





nnioTHER 



¥ N my darling's bosom 

Has dropped a living rosebud, 
Fair as brilliant Hesper 
Against the brimming flood. 
She handles him. 
She dandles him, 
She fondles him and eyes him: 
And if upon a tear he wakes, 

With many a kiss she dries him: 
She covets every move he makes. 
And never enough can prize him. 
Ah, the young Usurper! 

I yield my golden throne: 
Such angel bands attend his hands 
To claim it for his own. 

— George Meredith, 




A FATHER may turn his back on his 
'^^^ child ; brothers and sisters may become 
inveterate enemies, husbands may desert 
their wives, and wives their husbands. But 
a mother's love endures through all; in good 
repute, in bad repute, in the face of the 
world's condemnation, a mother still loves 
on, and still hopes that her child may turn 
from his evil ways and repent. 

-Washington Irving. 



"V/TEMORIES of mothers are sweet, but 
^ ^ never as sweet as mothers themselves. 
Some of us forget this. 

— M, D. Hillmer, 




\M 



W Al 



^rarnoTHER 




OINCE you were tired and went away 

We've brought you flowers every day, 
Now through your grass live daisies peer, 
O mother, mother dear! 



They say you are not very far. 
But since we cry we know you are ; 
We should not cry if you were near, 
O mother, mother dear! 

Mother, you know we sometimes cry 
In the dark night, we don't know why ; 
You would not let us cry for fear, 
O mother, mother dear! 

We think perhaps you did not know 
Your little children loved you so. 
Or you would not have left them here, 
O mother, mother dear! 



If we are good we think that then 
Perhaps you will come back again; 
Come in a week — a month — a year, 
O mother, mother dear! 



O mother, mother, come to-day! 
Why did you ever go away? 
We are so tired of being here 

Without you, mother dear! 

—E. Nesbit Bland. 




zy 







rnrrioTHER 





9 



#» 




-^JxJK 



A PICTURE memory brings to me: 
"^^ I look across the years and see 
Myself beside my mother's knee. 

I feel her gentle hand restrain 

My selfish moods, and know again 

A child's blind sense of wrong and pain. 

But, wiser now, a man gray grown, 
My childhood's needs are better known, 
My mother's chastening love I own. 

— John Greenleaf Whittier, 



/^HILD of a day, thou knowest not 
^^ The tears that overflow thine urn, 
The gushing eyes that read thy lot. 

Nor, if thou knewest, could'st return! 
And why the wish! the pure and blest 

Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep. 
O peaceful night! O envied rest! 

Thou wilt not ever see her weep. 

— Walter Savage Landor, 



TF you've an old mother who loves you 

^ to-day. 

Your life should be merry, your work should 

be play; 
For think of the motherless children there 

are, 
Who still plow the roads leading ever so far ! 

— Edward A, Guest, 






.KL.4^:^'^ 
X 





to 

mnoTHER 





T THOUGHT it was the little bed 
'*' I slept in long ago; 
A straight white curtain at the head. 
And two smooth knobs below. 

I thought I saw the nursery fire. 

And in a chair well known 
My mother sat, and did not tire 
^ril' With reading all alone. 

If I should make the slightest sound 

To show that I'm awake, 
She'd rise, and lap the blankets round. 

My pillow softly shake ; 

Kiss me, and turn my face to see 

The shadows on the wall, 
And then sing * 'Rousseau's Dream" to me 

TiU fast asleep I fall. 

But this is not my little bed ; 

That time is far away; 
'Mongst strangers cold I live instead. 

From dreary day to day. 

— William Allingham. 



ly/fY Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
■■■ Hopeless of honor and of gain. 

Oh! do not dread thy mother's door; 
Think not of me with grief and pain. 

— William Wordsworth. 




T 




» 





HYItOTHER 



/^H, there is an enduring tenderness in the 
^^ love of a mother to a son, that tran- 
scends all other affections of the heart! It 
is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor 
daunted by danger, nor weakened by worth- 
lessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will 
sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; 
she will surrender every pleasure to his en- 
joyment; she will glory in his fame, and 
exult in his prosperity — and if misfortune 
overtake him, he will be the dearer to her 
from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon 
his name, she will still love and cherish him 
in spite of his disgrace; and if all the world 
beside cast him off, she will be all the world 
to him. 

— Washington Irving, 



y^ 



w'^/W) 



"VrOW welcome, welcome, baby boy, unto 

-^ ^ a mother's fears. 

The pleasure of her sufferings, the rainbow 

of her tears, 
The object of your father's hope, in all he 

hopes to do, 
A future man of his own land, to live him 
^S£ o'er anew. 

* * ' — John Banim. 



T^HE future destiny of the child is always 
^ the work of the mother. 

— Napoleon, 






v 




rnriioTHER 



"DEHOLD a woman! 

^^ She looks out from her Quaker-cap — 

her face is clearer and more beautiful 

than the sky. 
She sits in an arm-chair, under the shaded 

porch of the farmhouse. 
The sun just shines on her old white head. 

Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen: 
Her grandsons raised the flax and her grand- 
daughters spun it with the distaff and 
wheel. 

The melodious character of the earth, 

The finish beyond which philosophy cannot 

go, and does not wish to go, 
The justified mother of men. 

— Walt Whitman, 




nPHE child, the seed, the grain of corn, 
*" The acorn on the hill. 
Each for some separate end is bom 

In season fit, and still 
Each must in strength arise to work 
the Almighty Will. 

So like a sword, the son shall roam 

On nobler missions sent; 
And as the smith remained at home 

In peaceful turret pent, 
So sits the while at home the Mother 
well content. 

— Robert Louis Stevenson, 




mnoTHER 







OT. LEON raised his kindling eye, 
^ And lifted sparkling cup on high. 

"I drink to one/' he said, 
** Whose memory never may depart, 
Deep graven on this grateful heart. 

Till memory be dead ; 

"To one, whose love for me shall last. 
When lighter passions long have passed, 

So holy 'tis and true; 
To one whose love hath longer dwelt. 
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt, 

Than any pledged by you." 

St. Leon paused, as if he would 

Not breathe her name in careless mood, 

Thus lightly to another; 
Then bent his noble head, as though 
To give that word the reverence due, 

And gently said, "My Mother!" 



T^rHAT is there quite so profoundly 
^ ^ human as an old man's memory of a 
mother who died in his earlier years? 
Mother she remains till manhood, and by- 
and-by she grows to be as a sister; and at 
last, when, wrinkled and bowed and broken, 
he looks back upon her in her fair youth, he 
sees in the sweet image he caresses not his 
parent, but, as it were, his child. 

— Oliver Wendell Holmes, 




1 





nYNOTHER 





■i7 i 





/^ SWEET unto my heart is the song my 

^^ mother sings 

As eventide is brooding on its dark and 

noiseless wings! 
Every note is charged with memory — every 

memory bright with rays 
Of the golden hour of promise in the lap of 

childhood's days. 
The orchard blooms anew, and each blossom 

scents the way, 
And I feel again the breath of eve among 

the new-mo^vn hay; 
While through the halls of memory in happy 

notes there rings 
All the life- joy of the past in the song my 

mother sings. 

— Thomas O'Hagan, 



A MOTHER is a mother still, 
^^^ The holiest thing alive. 



i 




-Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 



npHE melodies of many lands erewhile 
^ have charmed mine ear, 
Yet there's but one among them all which 

still my heart holds dear ; 
I heard it first from lips I loved, my tears 

it then beguiled, 
It was the song my mother sang when I was 
but a child. 

—C. W. Glover. 



\\ 



i I 



^^ri 





:'^ 



MYMOTHER 



INFANT! I envy thee 

-■■ Thy seraph smile, thy soul without a 

stain : 
Angels around thee hover in thy glee, 
A look of love to gain. 

Thy paradise is made 
Upon thy mother's bosom; and her voice 
Is music rich as that by spirits shed 

When blessed things rejoice. 

— Robert Nicoll. 




I 




A SWEET-EYED child 
■^^ Looked down and smiled. 
As to her breast 
Her doll she pressed. 
Then raised her head 
And softly said: 
"Mamma, when you — 
Before you grew 
So tall — ^wore frocks 
Above your knee 
And were like me 
A girlie small — 
Was I your doll?" 

— Agnes Lee. 



WOMANLINESS means only mother- 
hood; 
All love begins and ends there. 

— Robert Browning. 







.TYlloTHER 





"TV EAR beacon of my childhood's day, 
^"^ The lodestar of my youth, 
A mingled glow of tenderest love 

And firm, miswerving truth, 
I've wandered far o'er east and west, 

'Neath many stranger skies, 
But ne'er I've seen a fairer light 

Than that in mother's eyes. 

In childhood when I crept to lay 

My tired head on her knee. 
How gently shone the mother-love 

In those dear eyes on me ; 
And when in youth my eager feet 

Roamed from her side afar. 
Where'er I went that light divine 

Was aye my guiding star. 




m 



In hours when all life's sweetest buds 

Burst into dewy bloom, 
In hours when cherished hopes lay dead. 

In sorrow and in gloom; 
In evening's hush, or morning's glow. 

Or in the solemn night. 
Those mother eyes still shed on me 

Their calm, unchanging light. 

— i/. M. Montgomery, 




iNE mother is worth a hundred school 










mnoTHER 



I 




-mothers with white 



lips grown softly 
over sleeping 



LOVE old mothers- 
hair 
And kindly eyes, and 

sweet 
With murmured blessings 

babes. 
There is a something in their quiet grace 
That speaks the calm of Sabbath after- 
noons ; 
A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyes 
That far outreaches all philosophy. 
Time, with caressing touch, about them 

weaves 
The silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age. 
While all the echoes of forgotten songs 
Seemed joined to lend sweetness to their 

speech. 
Old mothers! — as they pass with slow-timed 

step. 
Their trembling hands cling gently to 

youth's strength. 
Sweet mothers ! — as they pass, one sees again 
Old garden- walks, old roses, and old loves. 

— Charles S. Ross. 



^ ^ TT is the nature of a child to be want- 
'■• ing to do something," said the enthusi- 
astic kindergartner. "As far as I have no- 
ticed," said the mother of six, *1t is the na- 
ture of a child to be wanting to do some- 
thing else." 




t'W 



]^0 matter how far from the right she hath 

strayed ; 
No matter what inroads dishonor hath made ; 
No matter what elements cankered the 

pearl — 
Though tarnished and sullied, she is some 

mother's girl. 

No matter how wayward his footsteps have 

been; 
No matter how deep he is sunken in sin; 
No matter how low is his standard of joy; — 
Though guilty and loathsome, he is some 

mother's boy. 

That head hath been pillowed on some ten- 
der breast; 

That form hath been wept o'er, those lips 
have been pressed; 

That soul hath been prayed for, in tones 
sweet and mild 

For her sake deal gently with — some 
mother's child. 

— Francis L, Keeler. 

T OVE unfailing, kindly counsel, all the 
"*— ^ pleasure 

In your mere delightful presence, and your 
smile 
It is loss that none may map or measure; 
Life will feel it every weary mile. 

— Roden Noel. 

To My Mother. 




■ s 'f^^^^j'yxasa 



^ 



t. 



I 




j^riYIIOTHEf. , 

T^ERE 's alius joy when de chillen's home, 
-*^ Oh, Lawdy, when a' links — 
De tears somehow dey alius come 
An' blind me when a' winks. 

Dere 's Gen'l Grant — He 's like he's paw, 

(Go 'way, you teahs, go way) 
An' Ann Jenette, she 's like heh maw — 

An' Sam 's like boff, dey say. 

An' Ahem Linkum, he 's de boy 
Whah makes ma old heaht ache; 

He do so many cu'us tings — 
Dey keep his maw awake. 

But den dey is my chillens — 

An' so de teahs mus' fall. 
Do some is good, an' some — ah sho' 

Yo' maw she lubs yo' all. 

— Florence Griswold Connor, 



TTOME is a box of jewels, more precious 
^ ^ than diamonds or fine rubies. Here, in 
childhood dwelt your mother's love; here, in 
riper years, the love of your children and 
their mother. 

— Albert B. Galloway, 



TJOW can a Being who is all love not be 
^ ^ Mother as well as Father? 

— E, L, Valentine, 




mrioTHER 



lyf OTHER! Home!— that blest refrain 
■*• Sounds through every hastening year : 
All things go, but these remain 

^ Held in memory's jewelled chain, 

Names most precious, names thrice dear: 
v;^^^U Mother! Home! — ^that blest refrain. 




/Z' 



f/ 



How it sings away my pain! 

How it stills my waking fear! 
All things go, but these remain. 




Griefs may grow and sorrows wane, 

E'er that melody I hear: 
Mother! Home! — ^that blest refrain, 



Tenderness in every strain, 

Thoughts to worship and revere ; 
All things go, but these remain; 

Every night you smile again. 
Every day you bring me cheer: 

Mother! Home! — ^that blest refrain: 
All things go, but these remain ! 

— John Jarvis Holden. 



TF the child is father to the man, how much 
^ more surely the girl is mother to the 
woman. 

— John B, Frothingham, 






nriioTHER 




TF e'er from human bliss or woe 

"'" I feel the sympathetic glow; 

If e'er my heart hath learned to know 

The generous wish or prayer, 

Who sowed the germ with tender hand? 

Who marked its infant leaves expand? 

My mother's fostering care. 

And if one flower of charms refined 

May grace the garden of my mind, 

'T was she who nursed it there. 

She loved to cherish and adorn 

Each blossom of the soil. 

To banish every weed and thorn. 

That oft opposed her toil. 

— Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 





rilHE bearing and the training of a child 
-■■ is woman's wisdom. 

— Alfred Tennyson. 



A MOTHER is the truest friend we 
-^^ have; when trials, heavy and sudden 
fall upon us; when adversity takes the place 
of prosperity; when friends who rejoice 
with us in our sunshine, desert us when 
troubles thicken around us, still will she cling 
to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and 
counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, 
and cause peace to return to our hearts. 
— Washington Irving, 




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'V^OUTH fades, love droops, the leaves 
"■• of friendship fall: 
A mother's secret hope outlives them all. 

— Oliver Wendell Holmes, 



ly/fAMMA, at night, puts out my light, 
•*-•*• And leaves me in my bed ; 
Then dreadful things with peaked wings. 
Go sailing round my head. I 



I can espy a horrid eye 

That looks right through the sheet. 
Mamma tells me I only see 

The lamp upon the street. 

'' ' She says that guardian angels fair, 
With little children stay; 
Btit, when her step dies on the stair, 
I hear them go away. 




So, if God means to be good 
To little children in the night, 

I wish He'd leave — of course He could — 
My own mamma — and light. 

— Mary Baldwin. 



r^ CHASER of the dragon-flies at play, t\ 
^^ O son, mv son! 
jj I wonder where thy little feet to-day 
Have run! 

— From the Japanese, 



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FT in the after days, when thou and I 
Have fallen from the scope of human 
view. 
When, both together, under the sweet sky 
We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew, 
Men will recall thy gracious presence 
^^H . Wand, 

Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face ; 
Will pore o'er painting by thy plastic 
hand. 
And vaunt thy skill and tell thy deeds of 
grace. 
Oh, may they then, who crown thee with 
true bays, 
Saying, " What love unto her son she bore!" 
Make this addition to thy perfect praise. 
Nor ever yet was mother worshiped 




more!" 



So shall I live with thee, and thy dear fame 
Shall link my love unto thine honored name. 

— Julian Fane. 

IVTY Mother's voice, how often creeps 

"■• Its cadence on my lonely hours! 
Like healing sent on wings of sleep. 

Or dew to the unconscious flowers. 
I can forget her melting prayer 

When leaping pulses madly fly. 
But in the still, unbroken air 

Her gentle tone comes stealing by. 
And years, and sin, and manhood flee. 
And leave me at my Mother's knee. 

— Nathaniel Parker Willis, 






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TJESIDE her babe, who sweetly slept, 
*^ A widowed mother sat and wept 

O'er years of love gone by; 
And as the sobs thick-gathering came. 
She murmured her dead husband's name 

'Mid that sad lullaby. 

While thus she sat, a sunbeam broke 
Into the room; the babe awoke 

And from its cradle smiled! 
Ah me ! what kindling smiles met there ! 
I know not whether was more fair. 

The mother or her child! 

With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms, 
The smiler stretched his rosy arms, 

And to her bosom leapt — 
All tears at once were swept away, 
And said a face as bright as day, 

"Forgive me that I wept!" 

Sufferings there are from nature sprung. 
Ear hath not heard, nor poet's tongue 

May venture to declare; 
But this as Holy Writ is sure : 
*'The griefs she bids us here endure 

She can herself repair!" 

— John Wilson, 




\ MAN never knows all that his mother 
'^^ has been to him till it's too late to let 
her know that he sees it. 

— William Deem Howells. 





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"IJirHEN I am sad it comes to me, 

^ ^ A tender quiet old strain; 

I hear her voice soft, low and sweet, 

Take tip the song again, 
I lean and listen to the sound, — 

Were ever notes like these? 
Like brooding thrush, at sunset hour. 

When day is at its close. . . . 

Old, sad and worn, a man of care. 

Life grows confused to me ; 
The things that were I have forgot. 

Nor care for things to be. 
Yet, through the halls of memory. 

Comes back that old, old strain, 
I am a boy — ^my mother sings 

Her old-time song again. 

— Emma M. Johnson, 




A LL hopes and loves unworthy 
-^^ Fade out at this sweet hour, 
All pure and noble longings 
Renew their holy power; 
For Christ, who in the Virgin 
Our motherhood has blest. 
Is near to every woman 
With a baby on her breast. 

— Mary Frances Butts, 




S one whom his mother comforteth, so 
will I comfort you. 

— Isaiah, 



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TN that happy home above, 

'' Where all perfect joy hath bu*th, 

Thou dispensest good and love. 

Mother, as thou didst on earth; 
And, though distant seems that sphere, 
Still I feel thee ever near. 

Though my longing eye now views 

Thy angelic mien no more. 
Still thy spirit can infuse 

Good in mine, unknown before. 
Still the voice, from childhood dear, 
Steals upon my raptured ear. | 

— Anna Cora Ritchie. 

/^H! when a Mother meets on high ^-^ 

^-^ The Babe she lost in infancy, \ 

Hath she not then, for pains and fears. 

The day of woe, the watchful night. 
For all her sorrows, all her tears. 

An overpayment of delight? 

— Robert Southey. 

^ ^OHE made home happy!" through the 
^^ long, sad years, 
The mother toiled and never stopped to 

rest. 
Until they crossed her hands upon her 
breast. 
And closed her eyes, no longer dim with 
tears. 
The simple record that she left behind 
Was grander than the soldier's, to my 
mind. — Henry Coyle. 






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rafMOTHER 



IT'ISS the dear old mother, her cheek is 
■*^ wan and wasted, 
Feeble are the footsteps that once were 
light and gay; 
Many a bitter cup of sorrow she has tasted. 
Borne unnumbered trials since her wed- 
ding day. 
Think of all the hours that she is sad and 
lonely. 
All her vanished pleasures living o'er 
again ; 
Cheerful and contented will she be if you 
will only 
Kiss the dear old mother now and then. 

When by Fame or Fortune you are proudly 
knighted. 
Let the dear old mother enter in your 

joy; 

See the aged pilgrim trembling and de- 
lighted, 
At the world's opinion of her boy! 
Think of all you owe her; seek to give her 
pleasure. 
Spite of cruel sneers from cold or careless 
men; 
While within your keeping you hold this 
precious treasure. 
Kiss the dear old mother now and then. 
— Josephine Pollard, 

ITOMES are for mothers as nests are for 
"■" ^ birds. — Arthur B, Laughlin. 



*> 





CO 

mr MOTHER 




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HO fed me from her gentle breast ■ ^^'' 

And hushed me in her arms to rest 
^V^ And on my cheek sweet kisses pressed? 
My Mother. 



y_"-s . When sleep forsook my open eye 
\feS^ Who was it sang sweet lullaby 

And rocked me that I should not cry? 
My Mother. 



C5t->: 




Who sat and watched my infant head 
When sleeping on my cradle bed 
And tears of sweet affection shed ? 
My Mother. 



When pain and sickness made me cry 
Who gazed on me with heavy eye 
And wept for fear that I should die? 
My Mother. 

Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay 
And taught me pretty how to play 
And minded all I had to say? 
My Mother. 



^ 



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Who ran to help me when I fell 
And would some pretty story tell 
Or kiss the place to make it well? 



My Mother. 



—Jane Taylor, 




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THE MOTHER 

nPHERE is no height, no depth, that 
"*• could set us apart — 
Body of mine and soul of mine, heart of 
my heart. 

There is no sea so deep, no mountain so high, 
That I could not come to you if I heard you 
cry. 

There is no hell so sunken, no heaven so 

steep. 
Where I should not seek you and find yoo 

and keep. 

Now you are round and soft, and sweet as a 

rose ; 
Not a stain on my spotless one, white as the 

snows. 




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If some day you came to me heavy with sin, 

I, your mother, would run to the door and JCM^ 

let you in. vP^X 

I would wash you white again with my tears 

and grief, 
Body of mine and soul of mine, till you 

found relief. 



Though you have sinned all sins there are 

'twixt east and west, ^ j/ 

You should find my arms wide for you, your 
head on my breast. 



lYffOTHm 




Child, if I were in heaven and you were in 

hell,— 
Angels white as my spotless one stumbled 

and fell, — 

I would leave the fields of God and Queen 
Mary's feet, 

Straight to the heart of hell would go seek- 
ing my sweet. 




God, mayhap, would turn Him at sound of 

the door; 
"Who is it goes from Me, to come back no 

more?" 

Then the blessed !Mary would say from her 

throne : 
"Son, 'tis a mother goes to hell, seeking her 

own. 

"Body of mine and Soul of mine, born of 

me, — 
Thou who wert once little Jesus beside my 

knee, — 

"It is so that mothers are made; Thou 

madest them so. 
Body of mine and soul of mine, do I not 



know?" 



— Katharine Tynan Hinhson, 

By kind permission of S. S. McClure. 



LB D '12 



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'i ^' < ^ • ■ • r.rmr 'Hm'h'':'^^>''-•'^^■'.■.'''■■W\nW^^^^^^ 



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Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Dec. 2007 

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